I think that I shall never see... a photo of a tree that compared to that tree.
First published in The Study of Light, on Substack, on August 25, 2026
The Driftless Region, Wisconsin
A Japanese plum, in bloom, Nara, Japan
Trees have always been for me the most forceful preachers. The world rustles in their crowns, their roots rest in the Infinite; they alone do not go astray, but strive with all their life force after one thing only: the fulfillment of their own innate law, to constitute themselves and complete their own character. Nothing is holier, nothing more exemplary, than a strong, beautiful tree.
Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak with trees and to listen to them comes to know Truth. They preach no doctrine or dogma, they preach of the untrammeled individual, of the primal law of life.
A tree speaks: Within me is a spark of life, a hidden thought, I am life from endless life. The eternal Mother has cast a unique venture and effort with me, my form and the vessels of my skin are unique, the smallest play of leaves in my crown is unique, the smallest scar in my bark is unique. My task is to portray and embody the Eternal as a distinct, unique individual.
When we are sad and cannot endure life any longer, then a tree can speak to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not hard. These are childish thoughts. Your anxiety comes from yearning when your path leads you away from Mother and Home. Home is not here or there. Home is within you, or nowhere.
The urge to roam tugs at my heart when I hear trees rustling in the evening wind. If one listens long and quietly, the meaning of this urge becomes clear. It is not an urge to run away from pain, as it might appear. It is a yearning for Home, for the memory of Mother, for new parables of life. This yearning leads back Home. Each path leads back Home, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is Mother.
Thus speaks the tree in the evening, when we are afraid of our own childish thoughts. Trees have long thoughts, like long and peaceful breaths, just as they live longer lives than we do. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned to listen to the trees, then the brevity and haste of our childish thoughts give way to a joy beyond comparison. One who has learned to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. S/he wishes to be none other than what he or she is. That is Home. That is Bliss.
A cottonwood on the Minnesota River, Koyasan cemetery in Japan, skeletal trunk on the Minnesota River, a Kentucky homestead, springtime bloom in Wisconsin, a root system on the Olympic peninsula.
